Roses Where Thorns Grow - Deleted Scenes
by bdafic
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. A repository for scenes within the "Roses Where Thorns Grow" canon that were either originally meant to be included and no longer worked with the 'flow', are silly/smutty/whatever add-ons to various chapters, or are prompts/alternates that have nowhere else to go. Will likely not be quite as polished as the main story, and ratings will likely vary.
1. Chapter 1

The party was met with the usual fanfare. A burgeoning crowd of curious onlookers awaiting their triumphant return: merchants, civilians, soldiers and other residents of the fortress – both temporary and permanent – all congregated just inside of Skyhold's main gate. The mob waited anxiously, if not impatiently, for the portcullis to raise so they could be among the first to bestow cheers of welcome and thanks to the Inquisitor and her entourage. No matter the purpose or length of the mission, the routine was always the same. Be it a months-long foray into the wilds, closing rifts and battling bandits; or a quick trip to the city to oversee Orlesian politics, she could always count on an enthusiastic 'welcome back'.

It was so terribly, _terribly_ uncomfortable.

Josephine assured her that such displays were borne of love and admiration – gratitude for all the things she had done for those around her. However, this knowledge did little to ease the painful twist in her gut that she felt each and every time her return to Skyhold was flanked on all sides by a throng of cheering "fans".

She had never enjoyed attention the way others did, preferring to blend into the background whenever possible. It felt natural – she had started this journey as a spy, after all. It wasn't that long ago that her daily routine consisted of little more than hunting game and socializing with her clan-mates. Now it was an endless parade of missions, meetings, talks, advice, rifts, demons, religion… She found herself longing for the days when she was nobody special. Life in the clan could be lonely, but this strange new life was even lonelier, somehow. It had been more than a year, and still she had yet to acclimate to becoming an object of reverence and worship. A living legend, as it were. And it seemed no matter how much effort she put into behaving like a regular person, nothing could unseat her from the pedestal upon which she had been placed.

The party led their horses through the yard, toward the stables, and Ellana offered a small nod and a smile to each person she passed. Her expression looking less 'warm' and more 'strained' the longer she sustained it. Gratefully, no one seemed to take notice of her fatigue.

She watched, relieved, as the mob slowly dispersed and returned to their duties. Happier for having been among those who _personally_ hailed The Inquisitor's return. She was glad to see them go. Grateful though she was for their well wishes, she was too tired to play the part of _Sacred Herald of Andraste_ this afternoon.

They were almost clear of the merchant stalls when she heard a voice call out, "Hail, Inquisitor Lavellan!" followed by a small chorus of cheers. A group of soldiers were passing by on their way to Cullen's evening training regimen, and apparently could not begin until they had her blessing. Turning, she flashed them the most believable smile she could muster, and a small wave. The gesture seemed to placate the group, and they soon dispersed, _finally_ leaving her path clear of any further interruptions.

Still, the knot in her stomach twisted a little tighter.

She must have made a face, because she found Solas looking at her rather curiously when she looked up again. Briefly, their eyes met, and he tilted his head just slightly. A brow quirked. It was a question: _are you alright?_ She answered by way of a tired smile, and he seemed to understand – she had spoken with him before of the fatigue her position often caused. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and made to approach the stables, rather than disappear into the rotunda as he normally did upon returning to Skyhold. It occurred to her then that he intended to find a way to remain nearby, or discretely join her in her quarters. The thought warmed away any lingering anxiety, and brought the first genuine smile to her face since she'd arrived.

Somehow, her burdens felt considerably lighter with the knowledge that she could lock herself away with him for a few hours. Inevitable, looming, conversations be damned – they could wait until later. She just had to find a way to convince Josephine to push any appointments she had until the next day, and not come knocking. Perhaps if she played up her exhaustion she could be excused to 'take a nap'. For four or five hours.

Of the original crowd that greeted them, only a few stragglers remained by the time the group reached the horsemaster. Among them, Leiliana and Josephine, who stood side by side at the foot of the stone staircase that led onto the battlements. There, they politely awaited an audience with her once she had said her farewells to the party. Ellana made brief, meaningful, eye contact with each of them. Nodding once to indicate she had noted their presence and would find them when she had a moment. They returned the gesture, but did not leave their position. She sighed, generally that meant something required her immediate attention.

Dennet took the mounts with a grumble of thanks and returned to his tasks without ceremony, already drowning in chores now that several foals had been born. When the hand-off was done, Varric gave Ellana a polite nod and a quiet, " _Herald_ ," before he departed toward the tavern with Sera in tow. For her part, the girl only offered two fingers and a rude noise as farewell. Eager to retire to her room and rest. Or drink, at least. Cole followed behind them, silent and unseen, to return to his haunt above the tavern. By the time they all disappeared into the Herald's Rest, the last, lingering, traces of the fanfare was gone and the Inquisitor's valiant return to Skyhold was no longer the center of attention.

 _And thank the Creators for that_ , thought Ellana.

Once she was alone, Solas approached quietly. Casually. Holding at a respectable distance from her, with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. His manner calm, and formal. It was only once she caught his eye that she saw the glint of mischief that betrayed the façade.

"Inquisitor," he said, inclining his chin. Professional. Polite.

She bit back a smile as she returned the greeting. " _Solas._ "

His eyes passed from her, to the Horsemaster working several paces away, and back to her again. Taking the hint, she headed away from the stable doors, toward him. And once safely out of earshot, she held up her pack. "Help me unknot this?" she asked innocently.

Solas needed no further prompt to play along, and took it from her with a nod. Immediately going to work on a knot that was not nearly as complicated as the laboured movement of his fingers would imply.

"That return journey has exhausted me," Ellana began quietly, noting the way his brow quirked at the implication. "I was going to ask that my appointments be pushed until tomorrow, so I could rest."

"Prudent," Solas replied evenly. Their eyes met, and they exchanged a brief, meaningful look. A dozen promises passed wordlessly between them.

Once finished with the 'knot', he handed the bag back. Ellana made to leave, but before she could take a step she was stilled by a touch to the small of her back. It was an intimate gesture, one that would surely raise suspicion if witnessed, but by the time she had turned back to Solas his hands were once more tucked behind himself. Though it was clear by the small, sheepish, cough he gave that the slip had been unintentional.

He covered for it well enough, inclining his chin as he added a quiet, "I would speak with you then." She nodded her understanding, and they parted.

Iron Bull stopped her next. Exiting the Herald's Rest at a brisk pace carried by long legs, a bright smile on his face. "Hey, Boss!" he greeted. "I heard you had trouble on the way back. You all good, though?"

Ellana did not stop for him, and spoke quickly, heading toward the pair of advisors who still waited patiently for her ear. "We're all fine. It's nothing we couldn't handle," she informed as he fell into step beside her. "Bull, as much as I would love to talk more, I really need to speak to Leiliana and Josephine. And then take a _very,_ very long bath and hopefully an equally long nap. I haven't washed since I left Redcliffe and by this point I'm certain I could make the flowers wilt."

The Qunari laughed loudly, teasing her by way of an exaggerated sniff. He opened his mouth to offer what would surely be another witty jab, but something gave him pause. For a second too long, he was quiet. Lips parted, the retort ready on his tongue. She watched, curious, as his lone eye slid from her face, to a point somewhere over her shoulder. His lips curving into an odd little grin.

Confused, she began to turn and follow his gaze. But before she could, he clapped a hand down upon her shoulder hard enough to unbalance her, forcing her to look back at him – grab his arm – to regain her footing.

"Ah, it's not so bad!" he assured, waving a hand, "At least you had a good time, _right?_ " And with a smirk, he released her shoulder, and walked away. Leaving her to her impatient advisors.

Across the yard, and some ways behind her, a door closed behind Solas as he disappeared into Skyhold.


	2. Chapter 2

Another one pulled from my forgotten files. A conversation between Blackwall and Sera following the party's return from a trip to Redcliffe. Takes place after chapter 8 in Roses Where Thorns Grow, and both it and chapter 6 are required reading for context.

* * *

It was not so early in the evening that being several cups deep into the good spirits was entirely out of the ordinary, Blackwall reasoned. Aside, The Herald's Rest was never lacking for drunk soldiers regardless of the time of day and he was rarely among them, preferring to spend the hours in the workshop instead. The sun had set a few hours before, and tomorrow was a rest day, so sitting back to enjoy a few tankards after an hour of politely listening to the bard wax poetical about her latest infatuation was practically encouraged. Hardly unusual.

At the very least the tune was not quite so unsettling this time.

What _was_ unusual was the amount of time he'd been kept waiting. He'd actually managed to work up a pleasant buzz before Sera finally arrived to join him.

He was expecting her: the Inquisitor's party had returned from their latest journey four or five hours earlier, so he'd heard, and the two had a standing appointment at the tavern every evening after such a quest. If more than four nights had passed on the road they deserved an evening of revelry, cheap alcohol, and stories shared. No matter the point of the expedition, or even if they'd actually shared it together, they'd undoubtably managed to acquire at least _one_ interesting story to tell the other. The ritual had become familiar.

Plus, the chance to unwind should never be ignored when it presented itself.

But, though he _was_ expecting her, it didn't mean she couldn't get the drop on him on occasion. When she meant to. Which was virtually _always._ She was more talented a rogue than the others gave her credit for.

And this evening was, unfortunately, no different from many previous.

Between the volume of all the other patrons talking and laughing, the jaunty (and distracting) tune from Maryden, and the third (or fourth?) ale he'd downed, he failed to notice the squeak of old hinges as the door opened to admit another guest.

Later, he would recall, that he might have been a _little_ more drunk than he'd originally estimated… for neither did he hear the deep sigh or even the heavy footsteps that approached. She did not bother to be quiet this time.

And so, when Sera's fist came slamming down upon the bar by his elbow — hard enough to make it shake — he was given an awful start. Only barely managing to bite his tongue and stifle a shout.

" _Fucking hells,_ girl! Don't sneak up like that, you startled me!" he admonished, one hand slammed hard against the table in emphasis. Not that it mattered: she did this every time, and absolutely revelled in his surprise.

Though not so this time, it seemed.

Sera gave an angry huff but said nothing, allowing her posture to speak for her. She seemed to be in quite a funk. Dropping herself heavily upon the stool next to his, resting her chin in one hand and refusing to look at him.

He scanned her with a curious eye, pausing to consider how best to word the obvious question, but then his eyes were drawn to the movement of her hand sliding along the bar toward him. Fingers gripped tightly around a small leather pouch.

Filled with coin, he surmised. And the petulant wrinkle of her nose told him it was a sum she was not keen to part with.

And — _oh! —_ that changed everything! _She'd lost a bet!_

Which one it was of the dozens they'd made mattered little; it was clear her feathers were ruffled, and that was the better prize.

No longer concerned, he spun around to face her properly — one brow raised and the quirk of a smug smile forming on his lips — and gave the offering an appraising look. The pouch was full to bursting: thick stitches strained, bulging in the spaces between Sera's fingers. Her scarred knuckles blanched white from the claw-like grip she had on it.

With a chuckle he made to claim his prize, but paused when she showed no intent to release it to him. A moment was spent waiting, hand poised over her own, before his eyes flicked upward. An unspoken question in the tilt of his chin.

A beat passed before, " _Here_ ," she spat, and finally relinquished the winnings with an angry shove. For the first time since she'd sat down she turned toward him properly, watching beneath an angry scowl as he eagerly took the pouch.

After loosing the leather ties he poured a handful of sovereigns into his palm. They gathered, heavy, with a satisfying series of clinks. It was a hearty sum. "Well," Blackwall said approvingly. "That's a lovely way to start an evening."

Too cross to watch him count the coins, Sera ignored the barb and instead gave a whistle and nod to the bartender, who retrieved a flagon of mead from the shelf and deposited it on the table before her with an empty cup. The dwarf made a point to let his gaze linger on the pouch of gold before looking back at her expectantly.

"It's on _him_ ," Sera offered, gesturing to the Warden. Then took a generous swig of the drink.

Blackwall gave her a _look_ but dutifully offered the man two pieces for his trouble. He did have enough to spare now.

There were easily more than 20 in the bag, maybe even as much as 30. It was a prize somewhat richer than their typical fare. The higher number either meant the wager regarded something that they strongly disagreed over — and thus had doubled down on — or that the conditions required to name a winner had taken considerable time to meet. Making it a fitting pot for a long wait. Potentially something so unlikely that they'd made the bet as a joke.

The only problem was that for the life of him he could not recall what they would've wagered so much coin on.

And if he wanted to keep it he'd need to ensure he didn't let on.

Sera was quick, and clever, and would be all too happy to exploit his forgetfulness to change the conditions of their agreement and take it back.

So rather than ask a question, he made a show of rolling one of the coins over itself and through his fingers; feigning confidence, with just a hint of smug satisfaction. _Really_ sell the idea that he knew exactly what the hell she was talking about.

Through his superior insight — or perhaps blind luck — he'd _earned_ this bounty.

 _Deserved_ it, even… for correctly anticipating whatever the winning condition was.

And so, with a deliberately slow pull of his drink, "You did pick to the terms," he teased. Confident. It was a fairly safe reply since she usually did pick the terms.

The sneer she was sporting told him she seemed to take the loss a little personal. This one _rankled_. But whether it be the amount she'd lost or the subject of the bet that left the worst sting, he had yet to discern.

Sera grunted, unamused. She folded her arms over her chest. "Don't gloat."

Outwardly, he grinned.

Inwardly, he made a valiant attempt to list every last wager they'd made. Mentally ranking them by order of age or import in effort to recall at which he'd won.

There was the one about arm wrestling… but no, she looked relatively unharmed, so that couldn't be it. The birth of new foals? They had discussed whether the nug was carrying twins. But there was no way he'd bet her that much over such a simple thing. It had to be people.

There were probably _dozens_ they'd made about people.

Origins, homes, families, wild stories, lovers, secrets, liars and gamblers. The more interesting the better. But clearly this involved more than a silly theory about a nameless templar.

It had to be closer.

Varric, maybe? Lady Josephine? Or Iron Bull? Bull was a safe guess: he was terribly interesting, and she'd won a similarly hefty sum from him over her prediction that Dorian had a thing for the Qunari. He'd admit that one had surprised him. Never thought the mage had it in him to have such a type.

It _had_ to be something similar… but he'd made the prediction instead. Correctly, one assumed.

 _Damn it all._

Try as he might, he remembered no such conversation about anyone else close to them. They'd probably been drinking at the time. Maybe even heavily. It was unlikely, but _vaguely_ possible, that he'd never recall it.

Cautiously, he replied, "I would never gloat." Another sip and he added, "But I will need to know the details."

That was a safe question. One he'd ask regardless of the wager. Obviously he'd want to know the terms of his win.

Still, it was difficult not to be cowed when she turned a narrow-eyed glare upon him. He straightened: confidence was key to ensure this worked. Finally she grunted a dismissive, "Hmph," and dove deep into her own cup.

A stalemate, then.

He pushed: "Sore loser?"

"Fuck off," she snapped back, lifting two fingers. _More sore than usual_. Maybe it was personal. Had he bet her something personal? Something about a potential love interest, maybe? There was that brunette in the kitchens he'd caught her making eyes at. He had definitely teased her over that.

"Was it all that you'd hoped?" he cajoled. It was a vague enough barb to apply to many situations, whether negative or positive.

It appeared to be the wrong approach.

"Why would I hope for that? Ugh!"

Alright so probably _not_ about the kitchen girl.

But now he'd gotten her talking, at least. After another long pull of her drink to steady her, she continued. "I mean, I made fun right? But I never really thought it. There was just no chance." There came a little snort of laughter. "It was pretty funny though; face so red it was purple!" Then a pause, and a brief look of horror crossed her face that quickly fell into disgust. "Andraste's tits! I just realized… all that shite she said on the way? Fuck, it wasn't a joke! I just thought she was riling me up, but— _ugh!_ She actually _… ugh!_ That means it was even _before then!?_ Could've been going on months. That's disgusting." The rest of her ale was downed with one quick jerk of her head, then she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "She's disgusting."

Finally, a breakthrough: the only other woman with Sera on the journey was the Herald. This definitely involved her.

Probably.

Unless she was talking about one of the soldiers at the camps. Though that seemed unlikely given the strength of her conviction.

He just needed _a little_ more context. This was beginning to nag at him. "Well," Blackwall began, choosing his words carefully, "You know how she—"

But Sera cut him off. "You don't think it was actually—" The expression she gave him then was an interesting mix of horror, curiosity, and fear; begging him to understand without having to speak the words aloud. "—while we were on the road, do you?"

He couldn't resist. With utmost seriousness, "Of course," the Warden replied. As though this answer were obvious. "Why not?"

That, apparently, was too much for the rogue. Without warning she took hold of Blackwall's tankard and downed the remainder of his drink in several quick gulps.

"Oh Gods, you know I had to ride with her half the time, don't you?!"

And with that she gave a hard shove against the bar, dragging the stool backward along the floor with an angry whine, and leapt to her feet. "Now I'm fucking thinking about it, you arse. I'm never going to get that out of my head. Couldn't you have just taken your winnings and shut up? _Arse._ "

Blackwall would later struggle to recall if, as she stormed away, she had indeed muttered something to the effect of, " _Fucking elfy nonsense_ ," or if he'd just imagined it.

Over the next half hour he sifted back through the conversation for clues, but ultimately came up empty. At a stretch, he might guess that Sera had stumbled into discovering some sort of affair. But given the party make-up, that seemed incredibly unlikely.

In the end, he decided to let it be, and happily enjoyed the winnings.

It would be _nearly a year_ before he recalled the conversation he and Sera had where they made fun of Solas' stuffy demeanour following an argument they'd witnessed between him and Dorian over the state of the library.

"Maybe he'd loosen up if someone took him to bed," Blackwall had joked.

And predictably, Sera snorted. "Who would be willing to take the stick out of his ass first?"

He could hardly keep a straight face when he posed the suggestion: "Perhaps Ellana is kind enough to do him the favour!" And then laughed uproariously.

Sera joined him, but not before adding a tipsy, "Don't know that even she's that charitable! Tell you what, if anyone does… _I'll owe you 30 gold!"_


End file.
